The Mirror
by byronicBritainiac
Summary: Ghirahim/Link. I'm bad at summaries, but basically Ghirahim has some deep-seated and very guilty feelings for Link that he's having some trouble suppressing. Yaoi, M/M, some fluff, etc. Mostly very angsty romance (Ghirahim seems like he's a very angsty person, after all!). Rated M because I curse a bit and there's obviously smut because this is Ghirahim we're talking about. Enjoy!


_ His face is in shadow, but I can still see the glowing red eyes, bright beneath his hood. He gestures lazily, beckoning me forward. I move closer, not daring to meet his eyes, keeping my face downturned. When I am directly in front of his massive throne, I kneel at his feet, still refusing to look into his eyes. Instead, I content myself with fixing my eyes a few inches above the hood of his cloak. He considers me for a moment – or at least, I think he does – and then inclines his head._

_ "I require a favor."_

_ My eyes finally snap up to his. "Anything, master."_

_ "The Goddess has become a nuisance of late," says Demise, his voice low and measured. "I have grown tired of her meddling." He rises from his seat, and walks slowly over to the window, the hall's only source of light. I continue to stare up at him, waiting for him to go on._

_ Gazing out of the window, he continues, "My patience with her is waning. I feel that it is at last time to put the Goddess out of action…permanently." He turns to me, face still hidden, but eyes still bright. "She has sent the Humans to live above the clouds, and summoned the five tribes of the Surface to do away with me."_

_ "Master, surely, the Goddess is no match—"_

_ "Do not interrupt me." He pauses, and stares straight at me. His eyes seem to penetrate me, to look directly into my soul. Then he continues, "You are, of course, correct. The Goddess _is_ no match for me. But I must admit that the plan she has concocted is worrying." _

_ "Master, what are her plans, exactly?" I venture._

_ "She proposes to seal me away forever, where I can never harm her or her precious minions ever again." I can hear the anger building in his voice. It instills in me that ardent desire that has so possessed me lately; the desire to do all and be all I can for Demise. I must serve him dutifully, be his most faithful…_

_ "Ghirahim, she will succeed." _

_My jaw drops as his words bring me out of my reverie. "S-surely not, master—" I begin, but Demise shoots me another look, and I instantly close my mouth._

_"She will succeed," Demise says again. "I am sorry to say that she has recently come into possession of a new weapon, one that is repellent to our kind." I watch as his hands ball into fists, and he turns away from he and toward the window again. "It is a weapon that we cannot touch."_

_No. This isn't happening. My master, the all-powerful Demise, thwarted by an invention of the Goddess? It isn't true._

_ As though he's read my mind, Demise remarks lazily, "Yes, I, too,_ _thought it impossible. What with my prodigious skill and strength, who could even dream of challenging me?" His eyes grow over-bright as he continues, still looking intently out the window. "But, I digress. There is, as I have said, a service I require of you." He turns back to me finally, and says, voice still measured, "You must resurrect me."_

_ "Master?" _

_ "When I fall, you must resurrect me," he repeats. "Consider it your new life's purpose. You shall succeed, or you shall die."_

_ I gaze up at him, shocked, but manage to say, "Yes, master. Of course, I will."_

_ Demise nods. "I knew you would be faithful, Ghirahim. But be assured," He turns away yet again, so that all I can see is his dark profile. "If you fail, I will ensure that you suffer for all eternity."_

* * *

I sit bolt upright in bed, shaking, cold sweat trickling down my forehead and back. It's the same dream I've been having for weeks, but somehow, seeing it again doesn't minimize the blow. Guilt settles into my heart like a stone. Guilt, for the promises I've failed to keep, for the master who I've let down, and for the mixture of ennui and idleness that I've allowed to control my life of late.

I detest idleness. Yet lately all I've been is idle. Each morning I awake with no purpose. The purpose I thought my life once had is gone, because of my own inexcusable failure, and it's been replaced by this incessant urge to do absolutely nothing about it.

Yet, guilt isn't the only emotion that's been plaguing me lately. I've had to come to terms with the fact that the master whose approval I craved, whose orders I followed to the hilt, and whose happiness was my obsession, is gone, and what I feel now isn't just a sense of loss. It's mourning – and it's different from any sadness I've ever felt before. What I do know, though, is that I descended into this listless depression when I no longer served a master. Demise gave my life at least a shadow of a purpose; he at least gave me a reason to get out of bed in the morning – a sense of motivation. He was all I had, truly – as my creator, and my master, he was the only thing that existed for me. His death has affected me more than I could ever have imagined.

It's as if he's left a hole in my heart. But I can't quite figure out what I need to fill it again.

Remembering all this wears me down. It grinds at my heart until I can't function. I have to suppress the memories that intrude into my thoughts. Every night the recollections creep into my dreams. I cannot push them away - no matter how hard I try. I am vulnerable. I am nearly human.

But, of course, I am _not _human. No, the flaws of humanity are far from my realm of demonic perfection. I am a beautiful monster.

I rise from my bed and walk slowly across the still-darkened room to the mirror. It is here that I spend most of my waking hours nowadays. My body is my only comfort now that Demise is gone. Though some might say an unfettered obsession with oneself is something of a vice, I disagree. With perfection as absolute as my own, why shouldn't I revel in myself?

Yet…something is different as I move to stand in full view of the mirror, so that my whole body is visible. Something about that fabulously pale and flawless form is…off. I ponder for a moment, wondering what it could be.

Perhaps I am too thin. I have neglected to eat much lately, though my food supply is virtually unlimited. Or perhaps it's that my hair is a bit dirty. The usually silky white strands are greasy and stringy. Showering has taken something of a back burner lately, as well.

Or maybe the trouble is on the inside. It's been a while since Demise's death—around six weeks, I think, but I lost count a while ago, so I can't be sure. But I'm still not accustomed to it and I doubt I ever will be. An awful, crippling loneliness has me in its grasp and it seems to me that there's no escape.

There was—is— always a part of me starving for affection. What I got from Demise wasn't exactly what you'd call _affection _– but it was, at least, something. The knowledge that someone needed me, even relied upon me, kept me going all that time I was in service to Demise. That, and the fact that I was practically chained to him anyway.

My devotion to Demise was more of an obsession, really. He was all I ever thought about – besides myself – and I committed my life to serving him. Not that I really had much of a choice, though – Demise created me specifically to serve him. I was his pawn, his dutiful and willing servant. Without Demise, I was nothing. But all the while I was serving him, I couldn't stop dwelling on a deep-seated need within me, like an instinct, for closeness. Naturally, I was drawn toward Demise. As my creator, my protector, and my master, for me he held an attraction that I still can't explain.

Of course, I wish I didn't feel this way. I wish Demise could have made me the way the Goddess made the Hero's companion, Fi. He could have created me to have no emotion, the way Fi is. She feels nothing. I would swap these feelings of loneliness, guilt, and bitterness for her mindless droning any day. Her function is to regurgitate facts, and to present probabilities - to aid. Shouldn't that be mine, as well? Should I not just serve my purpose, as a guide and a weapon, as she does? If it is – was – truly my sole purpose to aid Demise, then what is the use of having such a human-like heart, as I do? It brings me nothing but pain.

I still question why Demise gave me a heart that could feel, as opposed to none at all. I think I would have made a better servant without it. Maybe I would not have failed in my mission if I hadn't let childish emotions get in my way. Maybe that's why Fi succeeded, and I didn't.

I frown at my reflection, trying to retain my last vestiges of comfort. As I stare at myself, I remember Fi. The Goddess didn't bother to make her aesthetically pleasing; she only thought to make her useful. Demise thought better. He made me useful, certainly. But he also made me this creature of incredible beauty. In spite of the turmoil in my heart, I smile at myself in the mirror.

But when I finally tear my eyes away from the mirror, it seems as if there's nothing left. I have nothing left to live for, and no one left to die for. The empty feeling in my chest becomes a physical ache, and I fall to my knees on the richly carpeted floor, head bent, and eyes tightly closed. I dig my fingers into the carpet as the pain makes me want to scream aloud. I cannot continue like this. Surely, death is better than this.

I open my eyes a fraction and notice a bottle of blood-red liquid glinting invitingly at me from under the bed.

Though I have many vices, alcoholism isn't one of them. It's quite difficult for me to intoxicate myself in the first place – on a good day, it takes about three bottles of hundred-year-old whiskey to get me sufficiently plastered – so I usually don't bother with it. But today seems like a good day to break into the secret stash I've been hoarding under my bed, waiting for a special occasion. I reach toward the bottle, praying it isn't just a hallucination brought on by my current state of emotional instability.

My hand closes around the cool neck of the bottle, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Clutching it, I bring it out from under the bed, and examine it closely, wiping about a century of dust off the scratched surface of the glass. It's just as I thought. This is one of the bottles of wine from the Surface, when it was still populated by humans, meaning that it's probably about two hundred years old. I chance a glance under the bed, and find six more bottles – all unopened – of the same wine. I can't remember putting them there but I know for sure I've never delved into any of them before. I pop the cork experimentally on one of them and sniff hopefully at its contents. In all honesty, I don't much care what it tastes like, as long as it's strong as hell and gets the job done. Not even bothering to find a glass, I take a swig right from the bottle, and feel the old, familiar warmth settling into my body already. It burns my tongue and my throat but I keep drinking, and by the time I've finished the first bottle, my head is spinning.

I pass the rest of the day in a sort of drunken stupor, glad for an excuse not to leave my bedroom. I don't even remember to feel guilty about it, so for those few, blissful hours, my mind is completely blank as the alcohol runs thick and fast through my bloodstream.

_A boy stands before me, his eyes angry and determined as he draws his sword. He's just as I remember him; he wears the same, silly green tunic that I can only assume he's been bidden to wear. Even in his anger, he's quite good looking. His hair is gold and falls about his face almost carelessly. His skin looks almost dark next to my own pale complexion. The most striking feature of the Hero, however, is his eyes. They shine brightly even through the shadowy room we stand in and they're bluer than any sky I've ever seen. His cheeks are red and he's breathing heavily. I can tell he's poised to strike, but something tells me that he's wary, that he's hesitating. This time is different from the other times we've encountered each other. He seems even more cautious and mistrustful of me than before, but he doesn't move back when I step toward him, and I decide to press my advantage. Before I can say anything to him, however, he speaks first._

_"I know what you're here for," Link says quietly. "I know why you've come."_

_"Well, do inform me, because even I'm not quite sure why I'm here," I reply idly. He's never scared me before, and he doesn't now._

_"Firstly, you're lonely as hell," he begins in a clear voice. "Secondly, you're bored out of your mind without your master, and lastly," Link pauses, as though for emphasis. "You're sick to death of being _Ghirahim_."_

_"That's a lie." It's not._

_"Of course it's not. For someone so narcissistic, you're not too good with self-love." He grins widely, because he knows he's right. "I'm beginning to think you weaken progressively with every time we meet."_

_"YOU—"I move toward him, patience gone, but he stands his ground. _

_"You didn't let me finish," Link says, still smiling. "Like I said, I know why you're here." _

_I fold my arms and wait for him to continue._

_"I think you know it, too. Deep down." He looks at me expectantly, and a little smugly. "Any guesses?"_

_"I'm stumped." My patience is waning again._

_"You're starving for just a bit of affection, Ghirahim. And you and I both know there's only one person left who can give it to you."_

* * *

My head feels like someone's come at it with a meat cleaver. I should have remembered that wine – particularly century-old wine – always delivers the worst hangover. I don't even open my eyes for a few minutes – I don't want to face the light, or the rest of the day, for that matter. I don't see what should make this day any different from yesterday, or, indeed, any day since the death of Demise. Especially as I've dangerously depleted my stock of alcohol.

As my head clears somewhat, I remember what I was dreaming about. Having a dream about someone other than Demise intrigues me, and I'm eager to investigate further. I can't help but wonder if it was just the wine, or whether it was my poorly suppressed subconscious trying to tell me something.

I wonder if I really do hate myself. Ordinarily, I would say, of course, that I absolutely do not hate myself, because I am the cunning, the flamboyant, the all-powerful Demon Lord Ghirahim. I have no time to hate myself.

Yet lately I find it hard to love myself as I once did. Or maybe I never did. Maybe I spent all those years cajoling myself into thinking myself perfect, untouchable…and the death of my master at the hands of someone as small and seemingly insignificant as Link has shaken me to my core. Maybe the death of Demise has brought forth insecurities I've been repressing for two centuries.

I rise from my bed too quickly, and stagger slightly as tiny lights pop in front of my eyes. I stumble blindly to the bathroom and bolt the door, leaning heavily against the cold wood, trying to steady myself. I'm starting to remember why I don't usually drink.

I strip clumsily, hands shaking, and move over to the shower, pushing the glass doors aside with some difficulty. I turn the taps as hot as they can go and step gingerly into the near-boiling spray. It hurts, and I can tell the water is very nearly scorching my skin, but I don't care. Standing stock-still, shoulders slumped and head-bent, I feel my body relaxing by degrees as I let the water pelt me and pool at my feet.

Closing my eyes, I begin to remember my dream. It seemed so vivid, so real, and I can still see Link, with his slight frame and piercing blue eyes, standing before me, wielding his sword and telling me things I don't want to hear. As I remember his face, something stirs within me, something I haven't felt in quite a long time. Shuddering, running my hands over my chest and arms, I can visualize in my mind's eye the way his lips turned up slightly at the corners, the way the light reflected in his hair. My heart skips a beat as my hand strays lower and lower and I feel the familiar tingling sensation spreading from my fingertips and pulsing through my whole body. I shut my eyes tight and breathe deeply. I know what's happening, and I can't do anything about it. Reluctantly, because I know it's traitorous, I wrap my quivering hand around my member, feeling it harden almost instantly beneath my fingers. I pump gently back and forth, imagining Link kneeling at my feet, taking me in his mouth. Now intensely aroused, I stroke myself feverishly, suddenly desperate for release. I lean against the wall of the shower for more support as I envisage Link running his tongue over my length. This feels so wonderfully wrong and it isn't much time before I'm breathing heavily and feeling my member throbbing in my hand. When I finally release, I cry aloud, watching in my mind's eye as Link swallows every drop and runs his tongue along the tip for good measure.

When I open my eyes again, a horrible, sinking feeling of guilt replaces the pleasure I was feeling not a minute ago. It weighs heavily on me as I watch my own seed drain slowly away. Feeling absolutely disgusted with myself, I wash my body and hair quickly and scramble out of the shower, dressing hurriedly and collapsing back onto my bed. I'm desperate to forget what I've just done. _What would Demise think of me, if he knew I'd just gotten myself off thinking of the enemy?_

Admittedly, Link as I remember him was a beautiful creature. I recall observing him and thinking about what a fine specimen he was – so strong, and seemingly unbreakable, and with such striking features, too. Whenever I saw him before, I nearly always thought what a pity it was that I had to destroy him. Now, though, he's just a vaguely annoying figment on the periphery of my imagination – a vaguely annoying figment, to which I also happen to be incredibly attracted. For the life of me, I can't understand why it has to be _Link_, my _enemy_, the person I spent the last six months trying to obliterate. Perhaps all along I harbored an indistinct sort of desire for him, but my ardent desire to fulfill my mission for Demise eclipsed it.

Then again, as last night's dream proved, I must long somewhere in my subconscious for some form of affection, for love, and maybe it's this, and not just sex, that I want from Link. After all, he presents something of a caring disposition, even if he didn't direct such a disposition toward me at all. Not to mention the fact that he's just about the only person left in the world with who I'm on a first-name basis.

None of this, however, excuses the fact that he is my sworn enemy. Whatever the changes in my feelings toward Link, I must never betray Demise. _But,_ I remind myself, with some trepidation, _Demise is dead._ _He's gone, and he's not coming back._

Of course, I know that's true, and that offers me a small degree of consolation. At least Demise isn't around anymore to see how vile I've become. It's a small comfort, I know, and it's pathetic. I can't justify anything I've done lately – not the listlessness, or the idleness, or the drinking, or the guilty fantasizing. None of it is excusable. _Well, _I think wryly. _At least I'm properly ashamed of myself._

I am such a fucking monster.


End file.
